Spots: Spit and Bailing Wire

A Web Serial by M.C.A. Hogarth

36. Desperate Quarters.	38. Prototype.

37. Spit and Bailing Wire

Senior Enlisted Meeting Room. Dusty and Roach, Scythe's peers, are sitting around a table along with Big Lion, the platoon leader.

Dusty. "We can't keep going like this."

Scythe, to himself. " 'The center will not hold.' "

Roach. "She's right, Lion. This is ****, no mistake."

Big Lion. "Tell me something I don't know. Can we get less complaining and more suggestions?"

Roach. "I think we're gonna have to fill in the gaps in the teams with each other's people."

Dusty. "We can't do that without enlarging the patrol zones. The shifts will be longer."

Roach. "Yeah, but at least the teams will be full-strength. Right now we're covering smaller areas with teams that are down, sometimes by half."

Scythe. "He's right. Plus, unit cohesion is failing. Our squads haven't worked together in ages. Hell, even inside the squad it's been too long since we've worked in anything but pairs or fire-teams."

Dusty. "What're you going to do? We sure haven't got time for training."

Roach, wry. "Sure we do. On-the-job training, best kind." He glances at Big Lion. "You're quiet."

"Just thinking you're right." She doesn't look pleased. "But we've got too many injured. There aren't many ways to solve manpower problems. And we can't do less sleep, performance is already degrading."

"How long is this going to keep on?" Dusty. "Any word at all on possible relief?"

Big Lion shakes her head.

Roach. "The men are saying we're gonna die on this rock, just like the company guarding the other donut."

Big Lion, scowling. "How'd they find out about that?"

Roach. "People hear things, you know that."

Big Lion. "****. We don't need a morale problem on top of this."

Scythe. "I think it's a little late to worry about a morale problem."

Roach. "Unless Peaches has more brownies somewhere."

Dusty. "**** the brownies, we need moonshine."

Roach. "We can breathe on the crabs, they'll drop dead from the vapors."

Big Lion. "All right. Let's get to work scheduling the new teams and re-zoning the patrol areas."

Outside the room as the meeting disbands. Scythe pauses alongside Big Lion.

"This isn't going to work for long. You know that."

"Yeah, I know that. Everyone does."

###

Barracks. Spots enters; Claws looks up from his terminal.

"Hey, where've ya been?"

Spots, subdued. "Sickbay. Have you been there lately?"

"No...?" When she doesn't answer, Claws gets up and sits on the bunk across from her. "You okay?"

She nods.

Claws. "You sure?"

She rouses herself, shoulders straightening. "Yes. I just haven't seen an infirmary that full since the last accident on the asteroid."

Claws watches her. Then says, "You're really tired. Sure you want to go see the Fiddler?"

"He's asked for us again?"

"He's got that prototype ready."

Spots, rubbing her eyes. "That was fast."

"Guess he was motivated."

"Guess so. Yes, let's go."

As they're leaving, Claws asks. "Fang-two?"

"He's doing better."

"Good. I didn't want his job."

"What exactly is his job, Claws?"

"Tweakin' Fang-one. Professional-like. The rest of us do it by accident."

Spots laughs, quiet. "Right. By accident. So what's my job?"

"Bakin' cookies, of course."

"And your job?"

"Findin' you an oven."

Spots laughs in earnest. "You find me an oven, Claws and I'll bake the whole company cookies."

"Deal."

36. Desperate Quarters.	38. Prototype.